Piano Keys and Shaky Knees
by Wingsof-Flame007
Summary: one shot collection
1. On the Roof

Day 4: Dragons (sort of?) Big thank you to makapedia and l0chn3ss for looking over this!

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His fingers danced along her skin and played a tune stolen by the breeze, whisked away. It wasn't the music that mattered then, as silent as it was, because the hum of her soul was far more appealing. And just feeling her beneath his fingertips reassured that for another day, Maka was real, alive, here.

She propped herself up on one elbow, effectively pushing his hand to the side. With her body angling away from his and her hair dancing with the wind and obscuring her features, Soul couldn't make out his meister's expression. Even then he knew, because he had met her long ago in a dream, in a fantasy of partnership, friendship, and now something else.

Her wavelength fluttered with courage, and it wasn't the first time. Maka was an unconquerable soul, always seeking adventure, improvement, and a love that would never slam the door in her face.

"Let's fly," she whispered. Her eyes were wide and fierce and greengreengreen, not one solid color but hues and forests of secrets and flecks of gold; she whisked his breath away. Soul was afraid that she hadn't spoken, that her voice was a trick of the wind, or that her words had been swallowed by the night.

But for another day, she was real, tangible, lovable.

Soul lifted himself and met her gaze, determined to-to fly, because his partner sought the next adventure before the day even began.

"Fly?" he asked, because it was some ungodly hour–they shouldn't have been awake anyway–couldn't they just enjoy the stars?

She had heard–curse their resonance link. Their souls were entwined incredibly by mutual trust and _other_ , but that had to be one-sided. That had to be just him, because on nights like these when he saw her as an angel, as a secret of the stars and a trick of the light, he adored. And she looked ahead, wanted to soar above the clouds with him at her side. Her right-hand man; her partner in crime; her friend and nothing more, then and forever on, because he was just Soul.

"Yes," Maka puffed, swiping her hair behind her ear, out of the way. He could see her now, all of her: her lips pulled into a thin line, probably annoyed with him for not leaping at the notion. Her nostrils flared and eyes narrowed, and a tiny comma formed between her furrowed brows. She was cute when she was mad, and as he tucked the image away in his mind, Maka growled. "Can you focus for like, two seconds?"

"Hey, it's late."

"Whatever." She sat back, seeming to forget for a moment why she'd even spoken up. He cracked a smile–just a small one, because she'd notice, because she could already feel the amusement trickling down his wavelength, because he didn't want to interrupt and ruin whatever plan her mind had conjured up.

"Oh! Thanks for reminding me, but seriously, tone it down a notch. I can't hear myself think."

"Then don't listen."

"You're loud!" Like she wasn't. "You—ugh, never mind. It's not worth it."

Soul blinked, backtracked to find his mistake, rewound the scene. She'd been excited, and… and he hadn't. Was that it? Maka raised her brows pointedly and he rolled his eyes. Color him surprised.

"Fine. What is it?"

She was a blur of excitement, speaking quickly and quietly: They should fly away from her responsibilities and her papa and her fears and doubts and insecurities, just for a day, and simply be with each other. They could weave through the clouds, paint the sky with red and green and white and ashy gold; they could just _be_. Didn't that sound great?

He shook his head. Maka was captain of her own soul, untouchable, unconquerable. She was ruler of the skies and if she wanted to fly, he'd be her beacon. Her weapon. Her anything, so long as she still smiled and melted his heart in a way that the desert never could.

She heard that too, he knew, because Maka smiled kindly. "Let's fly," she said softly, hand outstretched, and he took it.

For another day, she was real, stunning, and beautiful, and as they took off, with Soul as her weapon-gone-friend-gone-something-else-maybe, her soul sang. Not even the wind could drown out the music they made together. Not even the stars could shine brighter than her eyes, her heart, his Maka.


	2. Grasping Shadows

Thank you fabulousanima and makapedia for looking over this!

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He'd said not to touch him, and that was the only warning she'd get. He'd told her to always knock, no matter what, to always alert him of her presence, and he wouldn't say it again. Soul had told her a lot of things—like not to ask about his name, his family, how he'd gotten here—and Death, she should have listened. **  
**

Maka flinched—not the best choice of words.

They'd just finished up a mission. She'd gripped his shaft and with one fluid swing, his blade cut through the demon; the scythe real, tangible, touchable. He ate the creature's soul, breathing a sigh, and gave her a thumbs up.

"Nice work," Soul said with a friendly smirk, falling into step beside her. The moon hung low, dark and luminous, and the sparse light did funny things with his hair. It was almost—it was white, definitely, but faded. She hadn't noticed.

He'd turned then, brows raised and eyes shimmering. They were luminescent, redredred, and perhaps her favorite thing in the world. Dangerous-looking, yes, just like his teeth—but Soul would never lay a finger on her.

Then again, he wouldn't let her come closer than a foot.

"-ka. Maka. _Maka_."

"Hm?"

"You're acting spacey."

The meister hummed; he'd caught her, _again_. Maka wondered how he read her like an open book, how he found it so easy to gloss over his own emotions. "Just thinking. It happens, especially at times like this." To the confused comma between his brows, she said, "Late at night, and after a mission."

"Ah." Her partner turned quiet. Her boots clicked against the pavement, while his steps were padded and light. She was the trained fighter, so why was his walk a mere whisper?

"Soul, what—"

"There's something I—"

The two halted. Stared. When had they grown so awkward with each other? Soul had been notoriously closed off from the beginning, sure, but this was just strange. Their conversations felt forced.

"You first," Maka insisted, and he shook his head.

"Not important. Go."

Her breath left in a rush—this was ridiculous. He'd danced around her questions the past week, but now he was stepping back from his own words. His gaze was imploring, bright as fire, so she snapped, "Fine. What _are_ you?"

Maka almost missed the way his wavelength stilled, almost didn't see his jaw tighten and his eyes flicker. "A weapon," Soul said automatically, but he looked as though he wanted to say more. " _Your_ weapon."

"That's not—"

"Look, do you trust me or not?" His voice cut through any coherent thought she had—sharp, accusing, and if she listened to his soul, pleading.

"How did this turn into…"

The wind toyed mercilessly with his hair—silver, light-bending, beautiful. His skin _glowed_ , too, and he didn't appear tan so much as—

"Don't scream!"

Maka snapped her mouth shut, but the damage had been done. "You wanted to tell me something. What are you?"

 _A weapon. Hers._

He held his hands up—either a sign of surrender or a silent "calm down," she wasn't sure.

 _Not completely human._

He didn't speak. When she reached forward, breath caught in her throat, he didn't pull away, not even when her fingers passed through what was supposed to be flesh.

 _Not real._


End file.
